Lovers Walk
by lynne z
Summary: Bobby and Alex explore their new found relationship


**A/N: This takes place in early season 4 or just before season 4 from Goren's POV. I also have started to post stories to livejournal at lynnez59[dot]livejournal[dot]com. I know some people prefer to read and comment there so if you have an account there please take a look. Eventually I may just post there, but we'll see how it goes. **

**Either way, let me know what you think. **

**And thanks to Goddessdster for the edit.**

Lovers Walk

I like watching her sleep.

Her features are normally so deeply etched with cynicism in the harshness of our day jobs that I can't help but love how soft they look in the early morning. Her face is half buried in the pillow with gold and brown wisps falling against her cheek and her lips are slightly parted as she breathes.

For almost two months now, I have had the pleasure of waking to this sight. Though today feels a little different since it is not her naked back I am staring at, but her body curled on its side and swimming in one of my T-shirts. Last night was the first night she spent at my place with out us making love.

I'm surprised she didn't say good night as we left the squad room and escape to her own house. We were both exhausted from the case we had just closed and when we got back to my apartment she went directly to my room, changed, and fell into my bed. I think she was asleep instantly.

Not that I'm complaining. I like the gesture of her just sleeping next to me because it means that this, us, isn't just about sex.

Neither of us has broached the subject of love or commitment, but I've said it a hundred times in my head. I know she's not really ready for that and maybe I'm not really either. I have a tendency to rush these things only to have it blow up in my face later.

This is a very new experience for me when it comes to building a relationship with a woman. There's none of the awkward getting to know each other or lusty sexual encounters that take the place of getting to know each other.

She more or less knows who I am, good and bad, and she accepts that.

I'm so used to hiding behind charm and witticism that it takes months for a woman to figure out what a project I am, or it's the exact opposite. Their attraction to me is because they want a project or someone who understands pain and just maybe can save them from their own hurts.

Eames isn't looking for a side project, though I can understand if she felt like she got handed one when she was first partnered with me. I know my reputation and that I'm not always the easiest person to work with, let alone live with.

I also know that she doesn't expect anyone to save her, though I'd be lying if I didn't admit that a part of me sees her as my own salvation.

She twists at the waist and I stare down at her still closed eyes. My fingers find her hair and gently massage her scalp.

She smiles.

"Sleep well?" I ask.

She hums in reply with her eyes still closed and leans into the light touches from my fingertips.

"I don't think I've slept that soundly in years," she says.

Her tone is classic Eames: matter-of-fact with the faintest undertone of sarcasm, but it still stirs something in me that I can't describe. It means she feels safe here, with me, and it makes me want to break our unspoken rule and whisper every promise I can conjure into the lines and curves of her ear.

"How about you?" she asks, as her fingers begin to brush along the length of my forearm and she finally opens her eyes.

"Good," I say.

We watch each other for a few rare quiet moments and our fingers continue to innocently brush against the other's skin.

"Spend the day with me," I say and then watch her eyebrow jump.

It's a Saturday and one of the few times where we actually have nothing else we have to do.

"What, you planning to keep me in bed all day?" she teases and I smile.

"Maybe get you back into bed later, but, I mean let's go out. To the park or…I don't know…whatever you want."

"Like a real couple?"

"Aren't we a real couple?" I ask and run my forefinger along her throat, loving how her eyes flutter at the sensation.

"I guess when we're not working, but that's not very often," she says.

"We're not working today," I say. "Come on."

I whisper it over and over until my lips land on hers and I feel her arms wrap around my bare shoulders.

"Okay," she whispers against my lips.

I smile and raise my head to look down at her, not afraid to show her how glad I am.

"So, what do you want to do?" I ask.

She shrugs against my navy sheets.

"You pick," she says. "Use some of that infamous Goren charm on me."

My lips part with surprise. My other relationships and flirtations seem trite compared to this, so I never really thought to treat or seduce her in the same way I would any other woman. It makes me worry that she doesn't think I take this as seriously as I actually do.

"Do you need me to charm you?" I ask.

"No," she says in a soft voice I only hear when we are alone like this. "But…every now and then might be nice."

I smooth my palms down her cheeks. I kiss her forehead, the dip of her nose, her cheeks, and hope she hears in the silence how wonderful I think she is. My lips travel across her jaw towards her neck and I shift until she welcomes my body in the cradle of her hips.

I feel her thighs caress my ribs, while I get to the point where I no longer feel her skin, but the collar of my T-shirt. I tug on the fabric and find her collar bone, but it's not enough.

I shift my weight onto one hand, while the other finds the hem of the T-shirt and lifts the material, letting my fingers skim the soft skin of her stomach. She helps, lifting her hips, back and then shoulders as I pull the fabric away from her skin and toss it to the side.

We tease each other amongst a melody of breathy, escalating sounds. Her fingers weave into my hair and her body arches as I taste her left breast and massage the other with my fingers.

As my mouth travels back up to her neck, I feel her lips and warm breath against my temple.

I press my hips into hers, so she can feel what she does to me, and she pushes up against me, causing me to groan.

I sit back on my haunches and pull down her panties.

As I stretch back over her, she catches the rim of my boxers in her toes and pushes them down. Together, we kick them off and let them fall over the edge of the bed.

She awkwardly reaches for the drawer on my nightstand and pulls out a condom.

My eyes are heavy with lust and love as I watch her tear into the small package and then reach down to slip it on me.

My vision blurs and my breath comes out in a short gasp as she gently strokes up and down.

I clasp her wrist with my fist and pin her hand over her head. My fingers skim down her arm, over her breast, across her stomach, until I reach the inside of her thigh and then join my body to hers.

My world is narrowed to the intricate pinpoints of sensation that radiate off her skin: her knees grazing my sides, her breathy, incoherent pleas against the plate of my breast, and our hips meeting again and again and again.

I draw out my own stamina as long as I can, until I hear her cry out and shudder around me.

My body collapses around and inside of her as we each catch our breath.

I roll onto my back, curling my arm around my own head, and we both stare up at my ceiling.

I feel her roll onto her side and I smile down at her. She returns it and then runs her finger along the underside of my arm.

Eames is not one to initiate affection, though I'm not really sure why since she seems to enjoy and crave it as much as I do. Maybe it's some thread of insecurity that I have not been made privy to or some other secret from her former life that she isn't ready for me to know.

However, she never seems to mind when I initiate it.

I loosely latch my hand around her upper arm and tug until she crosses her arms over my chest and rests her chin on her hands.

"Well, good morning," she says with a smirk to counter balance the emotion that passes between us.

"Good morning," I say and tuck her hair behind her ear.

She lays her head down on her hands and drifts back to sleep. I hold her there, loving the feel of her skin sticking to mine, and rest one palm on her waist, while the other glides up and down her spine.

I stay like that for another forty minutes or so, until she wakes up again.

We shower together and then afterwards I watch her pull casual summer clothes from her overnight bag. The khaki capri's and light cotton shirt she puts on leaves her toned calves and upper arms exposed.

After we're both dressed, we walk to a small diner around the corner from my apartment, where the older waitress knows me by name and we eat a late breakfast.

It's the first time I can recall ever seeing her truly revel in what she is eating as she forks pieces of French toast into her mouth.

"I loved French toast as a kid," she says. "It was me and mom's thing on Saturday mornings when my dad took my brothers fishing…of course then Carrie came along and it was me, mom, and Carrie's thing."

I smile, loving these little insights into her childhood, though I always catch her gauging my reaction. She knows enough about my childhood to know that I didn't have much of one and I guess she doesn't want to rub salt in old wounds by flaunting her own happy memories. I wish she wouldn't think about it though. I'm glad she didn't grow up the way I did and never want her to feel like she has to apologize for being happy and well adjusted.

"I figured you for the girl who would have rather gone fishing," I say.

She smiles and gives a small nod mid-chew.

"I was," she says. "But I guess it was that whole male bonding thing. Sometimes, we would go on camping trips…all of us…and then I'd stay tied to my big brother so I wouldn't miss anything…and usually got us into trouble."

I imagine a little girl Eames following her older brother into the woods and discovering some object that didn't belong, but her being the one to pick it up to try to work out whatever mystery it might have held. I can see her running and rolling in the grass in a dress her mother told her not to ruin for some special occasion.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

I give her a sheepish smile, knowing that I've been caught too long in my own thoughts.

"Nothing," I say. "They just sound nice…you're family trips."

"They usually were," she says. "So what are we doing after this?"

"Wouldn't you rather be surprised?" I ask.

"Surprises aren't always what they're cracked up to be," she says with a smile, but I still hear the weight behind her words.

I figure it may have something to with her husband or maybe even his death.

"Well, I thought we could walk down to the park…take a stroll…"

"More like a power walk to walk off this breakfast," she says as she abandons her fork and drops back against the booth. "I should not have eaten all that."

She lays her hand over her full stomach and lets out a huff. Even though she doesn't admit it, I know she's still a little self-conscience about the few pounds she hasn't been able to loose since having her nephew. I don't mind them. In fact, I like the fullness they left on her breasts and hips.

"There's no harm in indulging occasionally," I say and realize that I'm not just talking about the food, but each other as well.

"Maybe," she says as the waitress drops off our check.

I pay and then lead the way to the park.

We walk side by side along the path, our shoulders brushing occasionally, but otherwise we keep the same distance we do when walking to a crime scene. She seems shorter than usual because of the flat sandals she slipped into before we left my apartment. We're quiet and watch as the occasional biker or jogger passes us.

"So is this the sort of thing you do with your other girlfriends?" she asks, breaking the silence.

My mind stutters both at the implication of me having other girlfriends and the round about way she just referred to herself as my girlfriend.

"I don't have other girlfriends," I say.

She glances down at the ground and her hair shields what I think is a smile. I touch her then, tucking her hair behind her ear, and forget our undefined rules about public displays of affection. She glances back up at me with a tight smile, apparently recovered from whatever emotion she just felt.

"Okay…well, is this the sort of thing you did with your old girlfriends?" she asks.

I scratch my neck as we walk, unsure about where this line of questioning is coming from.

"Sometimes," I say. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Well, it's pretty typical, early relationship fodder," she says, her mouth hesitant on the word _relationship_. "You know, where we discuss sexual histories…you tell me if there's any secret quickie marriages I should know about…or any illegitimate children lurking around…"

"If I had any kids you'd know them," I say with more bite than I really mean. "And I know I don't have the best track record…but I've never cheated on any of the women I've been with."

I know she was only teasing and that my reaction is born from so many nights watching my own father stumble into our apartment smelling of scotch and sex.

"I didn't mean to hit a nerve," she says. "Your dad?"

It's funny how I sometimes forget how much she knows about me from the little tidbits I've thrown at her over the course of the last few years and how insightful she is with them.

I nod, staring down at the ground.

"Yes," I say. "He…he was real charismatic…especially to people that didn't know him very well...and those of us who did, well, we just didn't matter that much."

I feel more exposed in this moment than I ever could lying naked beside her. I'm afraid that if she finds out too much, if she figures out how scarred I really am, that it'll be too much for her to want to deal with.

"Do you want to sit down for a while?" she asks, stopping and gesturing to a bench.

I nod and then follow her lead to the bench. I watch her sit and kick off her sandals to curl her toes in the cool grass. I slowly lower myself in the place beside her and lean my elbows on my knees, locking my fingers together.

"Some people just seem incapable of taking marriage seriously," she says and I turn my eyes back toward her.

"They're too selfish…to make all of the sacrifices." I say.

"Is that why you've never been married? Afraid you couldn't make the sacrifices?" she asks.

"No. I don't know…I guess I never really thought about it."

"You never thought about marriage at all?"

"I mean I've thought about it…I even came close once…"

"Really?" she asks, drawing her knees up and loosely hugging them to her chest. "How close?"

I shift in my seat, leaning back, and stretch my arm out along the length of the bench.

"Well, I guess I should say, I came close to giving in to what Lola wanted me to do," I say.

"Whatever Lola wants," she says with a smirk.

"Lola gets," I easily finish the quote and briefly recall watching Damn Yankees with my mother in one of the few truly lucid moments I remember with her.

"So," she urges.

"Um…we were together for almost two years when she started bringing up marriage. It was when I was in narcotics…and she spent the whole time telling me I needed to get out of narcotics."

"Couldn't handle the separation, huh?" she asks.

"No. No, she couldn't."

"It's hard being with a cop," she says.

I nod, understanding that it's a lesson she learned in the worst way possible, and one we'll both have to face if our relationship moves beyond this infantile stage it is in now.

"I think it was more than that with her…if it wasn't the job, then I was spending all of my free time taking care of…of my mom. A part of me wanted it to work, but…I knew it couldn't…and then one day she gave me an ultimatum: either get married or collect my stuff."

"And you collected your stuff," she says.

I nod and glance down at my lap.

"She should have known better," she says and I look up at her. "Giving an ultimatum to a man with authority issues…it wasn't going to turn out well for her."

I softly chuckle and I meet her eyes. She would never use anything that may happen between us to trap me and that's one of the things that make her so appealing.

"How about you?" I ask. "Did you like being married?"

I am venturing into territory that I never have before. I know the story of her husband's murder in the barest sense, but I know there's more to it than her forced nonchalance makes it sound. It's a question I've been curious about since I learned she was a widow, but even now as her lover, I'm still uncertain if I'm allowed to ask it.

And I'm a little afraid to learn more. It's only natural for her to compare the men she sees now to the one she married and I'm not sure if I could handle her verbalizing and validating my fear of not being able to measure up.

A small smile that holds years-worth of memories and a little bit of regret crosses her lips as she looks out at the busy park.

"Most of the time," she says. "Like I said, it's hard being with a cop…it was probably harder on him."

"I think it would have been harder on you," I say. "Being a wife…and a cop."

"Are you profiling me, detective?" she teases.

"Sorry. Habit."

"It's okay. I did have a lot of pressure on me…a lot of it from Joe. I don't think we were ever on the same page when it came to when to start having kids. I guess he was waiting for me to cave and I was waiting for him to see my side. We never did get to see who would give in first."

She looks down at her knees and my fingers itch to touch and comfort her. I finally give into the urge and cup her neck with palm. She leans into my touch until my thumb grazes her jaw.

"I guess what I mean is that he had more job pressure…because a lot of guys didn't really like the idea of their wives being cops too," she says.

I give her a brief nod until her eyes lock with mine and I can see her quietly rein in the emotions threatening to come to the surface.

She soon straightens and my fingers drip off of her skin, down to the back of the bench.

"What about that guy, Terry, you were seeing?" I ask.

She gives a queer smile at my non sequitur and slightly shakes her head. I feel the need to go to a lighter, safer, subject and I figure turn-about is fair play.

"Uh…my sister set me up with him. He worked with my brother-in-law," she says. "Usually I would dodge any of her attempts to set me up, but I guess the pregnancy hormones were ruling my decision making skills at the time."

"How so?"

She sighs.

"I don't know…I was feeling lonely…left out at work…someone else's baby inside of me…I just needed someone…a distraction."

Looking back, I wish I had been that someone.

"What happened after the baby was born?"

"It just kind of fizzled," she says. "I kind of think his main attraction toward me was the fact that I was pregnant."

I chuckle.

"A fetishist?"

She smiles and it's the first time I can recall ever seeing genuine embarrassment on her face.

"Apparently," she says. "So, it's your turn again."

"Okay."

"Whatever happened with you and the chief of D's secretary?"

"Denise? That was almost three years ago and it didn't last very long."

"How long did it last?" she asks.

"A few months."

"Why did it end?"

I shrug.

"I think we both knew that it was transient. Our dates just became less frequent and I got too caught up with work."

I didn't realize it at the time, but I was getting too caught up with my partner too.

"Work is a good distraction," she says. "I guess I let myself get lost in it after Joe died."

I know it's a difficult admission for her to make and one I understand all too well. I've always used work as an escape when a relationship reached a precipice or when my mother was having a rough time.

But work can never be an escape from Eames. It's a rather startling realization because it's the first relationship I've had that could truly effect my life if it goes wrong and, surprisingly, I'm not nearly as terrified as I thought I would be.

As I come out of my thoughts I realize that she is lost in her own as I watch her eyes catch a young mother jogging with a stroller. Even though she tries to hide it, I can see the struggle she continues to have with giving up a child that was never really hers. I can't describe how in awe I am at her selflessness.

"How old were you your first time?" she asks suddenly.

I stare at her blankly for a minute as she catches my eyes and tries to hide her amusement at how rattled she has just made me.

"Uh…sixteen. You?"

"Seventeen," she says. "It was very cliché."

"Cliché?"

"After prom, in the back of a charger with Steven Morris."

"Prom king?"

"Yes, actually. He'd been buttering me up for the better part of two years and…and I fell for it."

"He hurt you…" I say while irrational anger quietly simmers at the thought.

She shrugs.

"The act was…okay…not great, but it's not an unpleasant memory," she says. "But then a week after prom I caught him making out with Chelsea Delancey, who was far more experienced than I was."

"Sorry…"

"It's okay. For graduation his parents took him to Europe for a month…while he was gone me and my older brother went to his house and toilet papered his front lawn," she says with a nostalgic smile.

I laugh.

"So you're not exactly the eat cookies and cry type, but commit vandalism."

"I guess so."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"The worst part is that Lucas was already in his first year at the academy when we did that."

"You didn't get caught?"

"Hey, we're a cop's kids…we knew how to cover our tracks," she says and then watches me for a minute. "What about you? You care to elaborate?"

I shift, rubbing my hands together and let out a sigh. This isn't a story I have told very many people. Of course no one else ever brought it up.

"Sh-she was older. She had moved in down the hall from mom and me."

"How much older was she?"

"Twenty-one. She was twenty-one. She had run away from home when she was fifteen and had supported herself by teaching piano," I say while staring down at my linked hands. "I-I think she saw something in me that…that reminder her of herself. She could tell something wasn't always right with my mom…by that time it was just me and her, so Adele…that was her name…Adele started asking me to help her with little things around the apartment and…um…it just happened one night."

"You speak very fondly of her," she says and I look up at her to find her body turned toward me and her one elbow resting on the back of the bench.

I nod and try to read her expression, sensing interest and maybe a little twinge of jealousy.

"Looking back, it wasn't the best situation to put myself in, but…they're good memories."

"What happened to her?"

"An old boyfriend she was running from found her…beat the hell out of her and…and she started running again. I don't really know what happened to her after that."

She is still studying me, supporting her head in her palm, and finally I see that soft vulnerable look that I love and so rarely get to see.

"Come on," she says as she sits forward and loosely tugs on my arm. "Let's walk."

I follow her and the time passes quickly as we aimlessly stroll along several paths and talk about anything but work. I think it's the first time we've had a conversation where work hasn't come up at some point in time.

She updates me on her nephew and about how her sister is driving her crazy with planning a forty-fifth anniversary dinner for their parents. She asks about my mom and I explain how my last visit didn't go very well, which doesn't seem to surprise her. She can read me as well as I can read her, if not better, and she must have noticed the tension in me early in the work week.

Several hours pass and the sun is searing down on us as it slowly begins to set.

"You want to go get something to eat?" I ask.

"Sure."

I lead her to a hole-in-the-wall Italian place that has the best veal parmesan in the city and the owner, who I've know for years, gives us a quiet back corner booth.

She eats chicken fettuccini alfredo and we sip on red wine, which raises a flush to her cheeks that makes her look lovely and shy.

I find myself just staring at her, forgetting the plate in front of me.

She has no idea how beautiful and funny and smart she is or how completely she could own me if she wanted to.

Then she catches me mid-chew and meets my eyes.

"What?" she asks.

"It's nothing," I say, trying to hide the slight flush I feel on my own cheeks with a smile. "I just…I like looking at you."

She scrunches her brow, studying me as if she doesn't really believe me, but then shakes it off and returns to her food.

We quietly finish our meal and then the waiter places the check between us.

Eames picks it up first and reaches into her pocket, pulling out her debit card.

"I got it," I say and reach toward her.

"You paid for breakfast…I got this," she says.

"But this is a bit more expensive than breakfast."

"Well, I'm sure if we added up all the coffee you've bought me over the last few years it would even out."

She passes her card to the waiter before I can argue any further.

After she writes in the tip and signs her receipt, we walk the three blocks back to my apartment.

As I close and lock the door, I watch her kick off her sandals and then stretch her arms over her head, briefly revealing a ring of soft skin. I watch her walk further into the living room and glance over the small DVD collection that I have.

She looks as if she's planning to settle in for the night and I hope that I'm right in my assumption as I slowly follow her path into the living room. She's knelt down in front of the TV and scanning the shelf of DVDs.

"Do you have any movies that won't require me to read subtitles?" she asks.

"What? You don't like reading?" I ask as I kneel beside her.

"If I want to read I'll curl up with a good book," she says as she fingers one case and pulls it half way out. "I see you like French films. Why do I get the feeling that there're sweaty naked people in this?"

"It's not my fault the French are less pretentious about sex," I say and then reach for one particular DVD. "Here this one isn't foreign."

She purses her lip, teasingly and takes the movie from me.

"_Both a dramatic exploration of exploitation and a psychological portrait of modern womanhood adrift in a world of violation and rootlessness_," she reads. "I love how this tale of modern womanhood is about a prostitute and is written by a man. I bet there's sweaty naked people in this too."

"Some," I say. "But, it's a very interesting story about these two people trying to save each other, but who…even as much as they may want to, can't. They're incapable of it."

Her smile softens and she places the DVD back into its space.

"Well, I think someone should have told them that you have to save yourself," she says and then looks up at me.

I slowly nod.

"I guess we do," I say softly and then shift on the balls of my feet, shaking myself out of my head. "You know, I do have some old samurai films."

I pull open the bottom drawer on the TV stand.

"Now, you're getting closer to my language."

"Though, not all of them are dubbed, so you may still get stuck reading subtitles."

"Yeah, but at least these have cool sword fights."

She picks out a movie to watch and then curls up into one corner of my sofa, while I slouch into the center spot. About forty minutes into the film, I see her draw her knees up to her chest from the corner of my eye and when I turn to look at her, I find her massaging her own feet.

My hand creeps towards her and then my fingertips brush against her toes.

She meets my eyes and slides her hands back into her lap, while my hand cups her heel. It urges her to stretch out her legs until her ankles rest on my thigh.

I watch my thumb knead the bottom of her small foot and can feel her eyes on me.

When I look up at her there's a combination of desire and gratitude in her eyes that makes me wonder how long it's been since someone did such a simple gesture for her.

She leans forward and parts her lips, as if she's going to move toward me, but then she hesitates. I can practically see her insides squirm as she debates with herself as to whether or not to say whatever is on the tip of her tongue. Then, instead of doing what I wish she would, she's scoots down so that her head is resting on the arm of the sofa and half of her legs are in my lap.

I watch her hands move with the rise of her stomach as they rest there and her eyes turn back toward the television.

I slowly do the same, but keep absently skimming and kneading my fingers along her skin as I pretend to pay attention to the movie filling in the silence.

"This is nice," she says.

Her voice is quiet and she's looking more at my hands on her legs than she is at me.

"Well…I'm glad you approve of my feet massaging skills," I softly tease, knowing I'm not nearly as good as she is at using humor as a deflection, even if I am doing so on her behalf. "Maybe I missed my calling."

"Maybe," she says. "But that's not what I mean. I meant today was nice."

"Yeah…"

"It's just," she says as her neck rolls back toward the TV. "It's been a long time since I've had someone to do…nothing with."

It's a novel idea and a comforting one. I don't really think I've ever had that. I spend every day putting on a show to get people to tell me what I want and maybe I never realized how much that skill of being who's needed as opposed to me spills over into my personal relationships. There are very few people that I can relax enough around to simply do nothing with.

Apparently Eames is one of them.

"You're leaving early in the morning…to see your mom?" she asks.

I meet her eyes and nod.

"Usual time."

She rises to a seated position, her legs still stretched across my lap, and hooks her hand around my bicep to hold herself up.

"I should probably go home," she says.

"You don't have to."

"I know, but…I have errands to catch up on tomorrow…and it'd be nice to sleep in a little before I have to do them."

"You don't have to wake up with me," I say. "I-I have a…uh…spare key I can give you. You could leave…when you want. Plus, I mean…i-it's not a bad idea for someone else to have a key, you know, just in case…"

She smiles, though I think it's more at my rambling than my offer.

"You sure you want to leave me to rummage through all your stuff?"

"I don't have anything to hide. At least nothing you don't already know."

She pulls her legs out of my lap and curls them beneath her, while she moves to lean her head against my shoulder.

This surprises me.

The world we work in makes it impossible for her to get away with showing any vulnerability, but I'm learning that she's far more vulnerable than she'll ever admit.

"Okay," she says. "I'll stay."

She stays curled up against me as we finish the movie and after I return from putting on another DVD she curls back into my side.

She yawns half way through and moves away as she stretches.

"I'm going to go to bed," she says.

"Okay."

She leans against me and kisses me with her lips parted just enough for my bottom lip to fit between hers.

She pulls away and then pushes herself off the sofa.

She takes a step, but then turns back to me.

"Are you coming?" she asks.

A smile tugs on one corner of my mouth and I nod.

She flashes me a smile and turns to walk back to my bedroom.

I follow.

Later, she's asleep on her stomach with her body just barely turned toward mine and my fingers skate up and down her back.

I listen to her gentle breathing and watch her parted lips.

I find myself anticipating my meeting with my mom tomorrow and calculating how maybe I can make this visit go more smoothly than last week's. Then I think about waking up in the morning to find Eames still wrapped up in my sheets next to me, until I finally fall asleep.


End file.
